


Dismissed

by Styro3



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29696820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Styro3/pseuds/Styro3
Summary: [Band of the Ranger-General] is a ring that drops off Kael’thas in Tempest Keep. There was never any official explanation as to how Kael obtained this ring exactly, or why he held on to it all those years.A post "Shadows Rising" story.
Relationships: Kael'thas Sunstrider/Sylvanas Windrunner, Nathanos Blightcaller/Sylvanas Windrunner
Comments: 14
Kudos: 18





	1. Life

“No.”

Ranger-General Sylvanas Windrunner uttered her monosyllabic rejection with confidence. Only a sliver of disappointment was discernible from the Kaelt'has’s pale features, as he watched her remove the ring from her finger and place it in the midst of the grand table between them. 

The dull sound of the small jewel’s metal meeting the marble of the tabletop invaded the silence in the oval room. Even for a royal chamber, it was a rather lavish one; decorated with red tapestries, magical crystal ornaments and fine silk curtains.

“I see,” said the elven crown prince, deadpan. The arrogance he usually exuded was now visibly harder to maintain. He approached the window and drew the curtains slightly, as if to signal the ending of their conversation. Without the light flowing through the ornate window, she could no longer observe his facial expression. 

His fingernails tapped on the tip of his staff absent-mindedly. “I don’t suppose I could talk you into changing your mind, do I.”

Sylvanas shook her head and offered him but a perfunctory smile. “I had already considered it thoroughly. I am most flattered, of course. Any Quel’dorei woman would be.” 

Just as she predicted, there was no elegant way of doing this. 

“I’m running late. I ought to leave now.”

“You may do so,” Kael answered almost curtly. He was peering through the window as she paced outside to the Court of The Sun. 

Belo’re shone softly upon the streets of Silvermoon, its light reflecting from the bright pebbled floors. Elven nobles roamed the streets in their finest runecloth and manaweave garments, and vendors offered various fresh goods: wholesome loaves of bread, mana-touched wildflowers from the Sunwell and imported cheeses from Dalaran. Outside the wine shop, a barefoot busker was strumming on a harp and singing a folk tune: “the soldier came knocking upon the queen’s door / He said, I am not fighting for you anymore”. Sylvanas Windrunner did not have the time to idle and listen, but tossed a gold coin onto his hat on the curb instead.

Her mount awaited her at the stable master’s outside the city’s gates. Without further ado, Sylvanas made her way down south to the agreed upon meeting place.

Turning down prince Kael’thas was the right move, there was not a sliver of doubt in her mind as she rode towards the Lordaeron border. The prince had little to no genuine romantic interest in her, despite his courtship and many words of praise of her beauty. His proposal was likely a strategic one: the crown sought to expand its influence over the military, which she had led. Surely, the prince also wanted to keep a promise to his ageing father king Anasterian, to sire a future heir to the throne. 

But the strong-willed elven woman had no interest in being an instrument in someone else’s political goals. The Farstriders served the people of Silvermoon first, not the royal family. Sylvanas Windrunner did not elect to become the ranger-general - it was expected from her to take on the mantle after her sister, Alleria, passed on it. She would not wed a prince and relinquish her autonomy once more.

Kael might hold a grudge. On the chess board of Thalassian politics, turning him down was a risky move; but for now, Sylvanas cared not for the consequences. She rode on, rushing her mount towards her destination.

Eversong forest turned brighter as she approached its edge, where the ancient evergreen trees - taller than the spires of Silvermoon and almost ascending to the stars - were sparse. Her blue hawkstrider chirped vocally, as she dismounted and slung her bow on her shoulder in preparation. No one else was present - or so it would seem to most, but the Ranger-General’s keen ear easily picked up on a presence nearby. 

An arrow whistled as it sliced the air, only a few inches above her head, and Sylvanas flinched instinctively - but did not lose her calm. The arrow then hit a tree trunk behind her, impaling a large spider in its midst. The slaughtered arachnid’s ichor dripped onto the ground, and she touched the tip of the arrow pinning it to the tree, recognizing the familiar fletching.

“Your camouflage needs improving,” she announced out loud, supposedly to no one.

Her human trainee appeared from the shadows, and the weak spell hiding his location faded quickly. He saluted her with a fist to his heart, the elven way, just as she taught him.

“I detest these spiders,” said Nathanos Marris and slung his bow across his shoulder to match hers, gesturing at his fresh kill, clearly proud of his marksmanship feat. Seldom did the highest ranking commander of the Farstriders train initiate rangers on her own. It was a non-trivial undertaking, but a welcome distraction from the more tedious responsibilities of leadership. If Sylvanas had to admit it, the pleasure in such a public blatant act of defiance - mentoring a human - was also a contributing factor.

“It is fortunate that I have trained you to be a good shot,” she remarked as she touched the top of her head, where the arrow came dangerously close a mere moment ago.

“Or a bad one,” he smirked briefly.

Sylvanas gave Nathanos the once-over, openly inspecting him. He was clad in a traditional ranger uniform, brown and green cloth and leathers for concealment in the woods - apart from the headpiece, which was the wrong shade of brown. Despite the fact the attire was crafted for elven rangers, the tall human wore it well. 

“Your cowl is non-standard,” she noted.

“The quartermaster in Tranquilien only had cowls with holes for elf-ears,” he grumbled, and Sylvanas brushed her fingers against the mismatched cowl briefly. The dark pupils in his warm brown eyes dilated at the touch, she noticed.

“Come, Marris. There are plenty more spiders in these woods. Show me that you’ve been practicing.”

She took him by the arm with her, deeper into the forest. They fell in step together, striding through narrow winding paths and climbing over jagged rocks, skipping firing their arrows in sync. Sylvanas corrected his posture when he slouched. A small gesture was usually enough for her to direct him to fire an arrow at a passerby scurrying rat - he understood her instructions wordlessly. 

“You’re quiet. Even more so than usual,” she finally said as they approached closer to the shoreline near Windrunner village, and settled on the rocks to rest their weary muscles for a spell.

The ocean waters gently grazed the earth of her homeland, and their salt filled the air and her nostrils. In the presence of Nathanos, she allowed herself to push aside any concerns in regards to prince Kael’thas and the upcoming political implications of today’s events, and to simply relax.

Marris tidied his quiver and counted the remaining arrows. When he spoke, his gaze was not aimed at her, and his focus remained on his bow instead. 

“I could make idle conversation and ask about your day. Or wonder why my usually punctual tutor was late for our session. Or enquire why your ring finger is suddenly bare.” 

His deep voice sent her gaze immediately to her left palm, where grooves were etched in the skin, where the prince’s ring was once worn. “But I’d hate to pry," he said. 

Sylvanas stiffened. “I was in Silvermoon.” She did not elaborate. What was he insinuating?

“You’re jealous,” she elbowed the human playfully. “How sweet. Do you often fancy your superiors, Marris?”

Her pupil only rolled his eyes in response and busied himself with rearranging the hunting supplies in his pack. As he restrung his bow with meticulous accuracy, she felt a twinge of guilt rising in her chest. The affection was, after all, mutual.

“I merely reckon you ought to take caution. I’m well aware that admitting me into the Farstriders was a finger in the eye of certain... high ranking figures. Perhaps it is one bowstring best not to pull too tightly, so to speak.”

“Leave such worries to me, Nathanos.”

She rose to her feet and shrugged off casually.

Their break was about to end, and Sylvanas decided to present him with a challenge. “Slay half a dozen more spiders. Single shot. It shall be your last mission for today.”

“And then I’m dismissed for the night?” he asked.

The corners of her mouth curled upwards in a brazen smile. “And then I’m taking you home with me for the night.” 

The words left her lips without much planning or forethought, and surprised even herself. She searched her heart and found that she did not regret uttering them, though. It wasn’t about bruising Kael’s ego any further. She wanted this. The flabbergasted look on Nathanos’ face alone was worth it. He blinked twice. 

“Are you suggesting--”

“I’ve said what I said, and you know what I mean.” Her gaze was directed straight at him, refusing to let go of his. Nathanos adjusted his grip on the wooden bow on his hand and stroked his reddish beard, pretending to consider her proposal.

“Six is not much of a challenge. I can slay a dozen spiders in less than one hour,” he boasted. “Make it a dozen, and then... you’re coming home with me, rather.”

Sylvanas arched a brow, then hummed softly in agreement and offered her hand to shake his. The handshake was firm at first, but the touch turned softer right before they let go, warm fingers, calloused from hours of archery, intertwining and caressing. 

When his twelfth arrow finally split an oversized arachnid in two, Nathanos Marris leaned against the tree trunk from which the fresh corpse was hanging, hands crossed, wearing a rather smug smile that widened with every passing second.

“Eastweald is not too far. We better leave now, before dusk settles,” suggested a victorious looking Nathanos. 

She followed him to his home. 

The road to Lordaeron coats their armor with a thin layer of dust, and the horizon turned redder with every passing minute. An hour later, after a simple meal they whipped up together in his rustic kitchen, they stood and faced each other in his upstairs bathroom. It was him who blew on the last candle, dispelling what little light remained in the small room.

Sylvanas stripped down first, unabashed and arrogant as she was, inviting Nathanos to get an eyeful; but his eyes remained high, clinging to hers, not sliding downwards even once. The old creaking bathtub was large enough to accommodate both human and elf, as they sank into the hot soapy water across from each other.

This scene would have raised Kael's wrath and consume him like one of those fireballs he conjures, she ruminated, amused by the mental imagery of the pompous prince spontaneously combusting. Sylvanas stretched leisurely, leaned back and allowed her foot to invade Nathanos's side of the tub. He could have invited her to his bed long ago. He could have kissed her already, at least.

She prodded his chest gently with the wet tips of her toes. “You’re... stalling, Marris.”

In response, he nimbly captured her stray toes in his palms. “Haven’t you taught me something about the virtue of patience last time we went hunting together, Ranger-General?” He growled.

Delaying gratification was typical of him, always maintaining self control. He rubbed her wet foot and leaned back. After almost a century without, the simple pleasure of such touch was almost overwhelming, sending shivers up from her toes through her spine. If Nathanos noticed her reaction, he did not comment on it.

“So,” he teased.

“So,” she echoed.

Nathanos gestured towards the corner of the room, where her various armor pieces were laid on a wooden chair that has seen better days. “Is this what little long-eared Sylvanas had always wanted to do when she’d grow up? Advanced archery, military strategy?”

The question confounded Sylvanas for a moment and she tensed; but she knew her trainee as trustworthy. Surely he wouldn’t blather about this, or act differently in class tomorrow, in front of the rest of the Farstriders, if she let her barriers down. She considered his query in earnest.

“It was so long ago. I... do not recall”, she paused. “For generations, the Windrunners served as hunters and superlative marksmen. It was not a decision I myself made.” 

She closed her eyes and hummed softly, savoring the sensation of his fingers lazily stroking the fine skin just below her heel. “It was my big sister Alleria who gave me my first longbow. I was seven summers old”. 

“Go on”, said Nathanos and moved to her other foot, and the bathtub water rippled gently.


	2. Death

The water of Gorgoa, the river of souls, did not ripple; nor were they true waters. The river flowed from the eastern estuary of The Maw to its western edge, carrying the damned souls arriving from Oribos to their bitter, endless end. Nightmarish creatures, twisted nameless fiends, roamed through it, left to wander forever in the vast inescapable land mass, from one jagged cliff to another. 

Sylvanas Windrunner, no longer a ranger-general, no longer the banshee queen of the Forsaken, and certainly no longer the warchief of the Horde, kneeled down to peer at the river’s surface. It did not reflect the red in her eyes. The translucent fluid consisted of the souls of the once-living, rather. The texture only appeared to be liquid-like from a distance. 

The banshee tilted her head and brought an elongated ear closer to its surface, enough that she could hear these souls cry out faintly. How pathetic they are, she thought, begging for mercy, or still praying for their holy light to save them.

Finally, Sylvanas rose up and spoke out loud, her tone audibly displeased. She did not face her companions, but kept her gaze focused at the river’s stream, searching. 

This is futile. 

“He’s not here,” she finally spoke.

Three Mawsworn avengers were escorting her, winged warriors clad in dark metallic armor, wielding javelins. They hovered several feet over the ground, their wings flapping languidly in the Maw’s air in sync. They were staring at her emptily.

“Where is he?!” Sylvanas persisted and turned to face them. She never bothered to learn their names, or whether they ever had ones. “Answer me!”

The creatures would have reminded Sylvanas of her val’kyr, if it wasn’t for their even-darker nature. They were not her underlings: they served Zovaal, the Jailer of The Damned. Sylvanas knows his efficient ways - he tortures these souls for aeons, till their spirits break and only a shade of their former selves remain. A means to an end, he said, to forward their goals, and Sylvanas Windrunner understood. 

Her three companions peered at her, unable to provide the answer she sought out, or fathom the reason behind it.

One of the three stepped forward. She gestured at the river, her obtuse stare bereft of any emotion. The Mawsworn slave pointed her spear at the river and moved it the same direction as the stream, east to west. Eventually, she pointed the spear at the final destination: Torghast, the tower erecting above all, shrouded in black mist.

Useless instruments. Empty vessels. 

Sylvanas was seething already. It has been long enough since Blightcaller was slain by Tyrande Whisperwind, as she overheard from mortals who invaded this realm. His soul would have ended up here, with the rest of them, for her to claim. How dare he, allow that night elf fool to lay the killing blow, and leave her all alone like this! He swore loyalty to remain by her side forever and ever--

No. 

This wasn’t Blightcaller’s failure. It was hers, one of many. She shouldn’t have crossed the veil without him, leaving him behind in the Plaguelands. And now it is too late. Sylvanas wanted to save this world from itself, but could not save one man. 

One of the Mawsworn, she could not tell which, recited her master’s words in a rusted voice: “Nothing escapes the Maw,” and shook her head from side to side. “Only darkness remains here. All else... is forever lost.”

Sylvanas turned to face the three Mawsworn women and opened her mouth, revealing her sharp fangs. 

“I will be the one to decide that. He is mine to lose!" she cried out in wild uncontrollable rage. 

Only when the ringing of her voice reverberated through the planes of death, she realized the impact its sound almost had on these broken spirits. In her anger, she approached close to a banshee’s wail, causing the Mawsworn to shudder. She cannot threaten them to disclose his location. They were but worthless objects to her.

This unjust universe snatched everything from her hands: her choice, her homeland, her people, her sisters, her beautiful Undercity, and now her right hand, her champion - no, this wasn’t quite right. Her beloved. Had she forgotten already? 

For the briefest of moments, Sylvanas recalls what loving someone felt like in her distant past. A softer emotion that belonged to the living, one she could no longer fully comprehend, not since being risen as undead against her will. Yet the twinge of loss lingered on in her chest somehow, acerbic as bile, an ever-festering wound. It occurs to Sylvanas she hadn't even said goodbye to him when they parted ways atop Icecrown Citadel. 

Agony and bitterness manifested into something tangible in the Maw, and hers emanated from her body, coalescing into clouds of eerie green haze floating around her. When the haze finally dispersed, the Mawsworn beings already left her side, perhaps to return to their true master. She had no use for them anyway.

“You are mine. I will find you,” she whispered first. “You will not be dismissed from my service till I command it!” she wailed louder, at the top of her lungs, with the full force of a banshee this time, but the barren planes of The Maw only only echoed her sorrow and mourning back to her in answer. Then there was nothing but the howling of wind and silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Descriptions of The Maw's landscape and Shadowlands content in general may be inaccurate - I don't have an active sub anymore, and follow the new story progression through news and cinematics mostly. Apologies in advance - I accept lore nitpicks gladly btw!
> 
> I really hope I'm wrong and he's not dead-dead. Sylv deserves her one true friend back.
> 
> Read my other novella-length story too if you like this zombie duo (trigger warning: smut).


End file.
